A photo of Dale’s pond.
He always wanted one.
I talked him in to getting it dug.
Then the drought set in.

This year, finally, it rained.
Twenty inches in one month.
I photographed the full pond,
sent the photo to my son,
told him we’d stock it with fingerlings
next spring.

There’s no poem here.

What about love,
a couple sitting together
in a lovely place?
This photo would never be us.
I can’t sit still long enough,
but we are comfortable together.

We bicker. We laugh more.
I like to read.
You watch television.
We agree on politics
but not on the best way to travel.
I like hikes, museums, local fare.
You like driving and driving and driving,
stopping only for coffee, to pee,
to photograph.

You’re an artist.
I’m a writer.

Two prompts.
Nothing to write about,
but somehow, I have written another poem
about you.